The Road of Kings: A Strong Woman in the Middle Ages (A Medieval Tale Book 8) Read online

  The duke smiled sweetly.

  "What do I want? The thing more precious than money, ladies and gentlemen. Knowledge."

  "There are no scholars here," Losan retorted from the floor. Did he want a second helping? Whatever, let him yap. He doesn’t have anything to bite with, anyway.

  "All the scholars of Wellster are already at my service. But they know nothing about Count and Countess Earton."

  That was the truth. Baron Fremont had told him about Count Earton, but the countess... Yes, they had traveled together, but the countess absolutely refused to spend time with him. "A smart bitch" wasn't much of a character reference: even a dog could bark, bite, hide, give a paw, and bring slippers, but what exactly was Countess Earton capable of? Edwin had no idea. Still, he managed to instill some doubt in Robert, and so, His Excellency decided to learn more about his possible enemy.

  Ermina Roivel coughed.

  "I suppose Your Excellency should ask me."

  "Then I ask you, Countess," Robert readily agreed. "What do you know about the Eartons?"

  "You're interested in them as people, not in their wealth. Right, Your Excellency?"

  Robert nodded again. That lady was quick on the uptake and thankfully willing to cooperate. It was nice getting information upon first demand. Torture took so much time, and time was a luxury that Robert didn't have. He could have separated everyone and interrogated them one at a time, but that would have taken a while. He wanted to deal with his problem as soon as possible. And again, the Eartons weren't really a royal secret. What was there to hide?

  Robert was very good at scheming, bribing, and selling weapons, and by extension, was a great judge of character. The duke also tended to be somewhat presumptuous and have a high opinion about his ability to see through lies. After all, he had always been able to tell when he was being lied to. Why would that case be any different?

  So all he needed was to sort it out as quickly as possible and return to the business at hand.

  "Count...I'll start with him if you don't mind. He's pretty reckless and self-involved, but not stupid. He loves to take risks and isn't afraid of the fallout," Ermina reflected. "Jerisson Earton commands His Majesty's personal guard, but I've always thought the reason for this was his kinship to the king. He's his nephew, you see. It's always better to have someone you can trust in such a position. And so, His Majesty assigned Jerisson. He's had good training, too, but sometimes, he slips..."

  Gossip was something that Ermina was no stranger to. If she didn't hear something, she'd just make it up on the spot. A veritable flood of information poured on Robert. The gist of it was that Jerisson was a rich, spoiled idiot, and everything he did at court got glossed over thanks to his pedigree. Being a king's nephew was nothing to sneeze at!

  Otherwise, he was a womanizer who could get away with murder, a duelist, a bully, and a troublemaker whose work was done by his assistants. He was far from reliable, but His Majesty loved the schlump and indulged him. If it were up to Ermina, she'd put him in line, that's for sure.

  The Ativernans listened to her with straight faces, especially Marquis Losan. Meanwhile, Ermina kept on talking. She segued from the count to his wife, and it was Lilian Earton's time to shine. The countess was described as a country bumpkin, a shipwright's daughter, a commoner who could only blend in with the peasants, not noblemen. It's not like she was of noble stock herself, anyway. As soon as the poor count had married, he dumped his wife in Earton, where she sat tight.

  Why'd he fetch her, you ask? Why, it's a secret, of course—shhh!—but Ermina was smart and knew how to keep her mouth shut. August Broklend was gravely ill, and the old viper was cozying up to him.

  The viper? Jerisson's mother, of course! That's how they called her at Ativernan court, as she was a real snake of a woman. Her son was the same, too—a toady and a weasel. Anyway, August said that he didn't want to die without seeing his grandchildren first. The king slammed his fist, and the poor count had to take his wife from the countryside. Not by his own free will, that's for sure. He has visited Wellster before with his mistress, hasn't he? Lady Wells, do you know?

  Ah, so you had seen her. Then just compare them, the lady and that yokel! Night and day! Lady Wells is all grace, beauty, and elegance, and the only thing Lilian knows about propriety is that it exists! There could be no contest. You must see it's ridiculous. She's let her servants get out of hand, and her father hired Virmans to guard her, the unmannered louts who poke their noses into everything...

  "That's right!" Priscilla Elont chimed in. "Those Virmans, They're horrible! I mean, I have a daughter..."

  An hour later, Robert Alcine knew one thing: if there was anybody more useless, stupid, and rude as the Eartons, none of the people present knew them. Everyone complained; even the men put in their two coppers.

  Well then, it meant there was no danger from that side. He had to keep searching—most likely, inside the embassy. And when he found what he was seeking...

  He decided to leave the Ativernans locked up to collect the complete set. Having only idiots as his opponents reassured him.

  ***

  Robert didn't see Erando Losan get up after the interrogations. His ribs hurt like hell after the beating—he might have a fracture. Overcoming the pain, he came up to Countess Roivel, bowed down, and kissed her hand.

  "You're wonderful, Ermina."

  The countess smiled. She was a shrew, a harpy, and a hag, but she was no fool, and she was quite sure that the Eartons had managed to flee. What could she do for them, then? Only one thing—make the conspirators underestimate them, as long and as much as she could.

  She had assessed the count and the countess over the time of the journey to Wellster and held no doubts: they wouldn't lay low in hiding. They wouldn't flee and abandon their people.

  It meant they had to be given time and an opportunity to make their move. She hoped she was able to buy them that. Maybe she and the others wouldn't die in prison. Maybe they would even get out alive. Ermina harbored no illusions: torture, executions—it was unlikely they could expect anything else from Alcine. Yet there was still a chance, and she was going to keep fighting, the way she could. But where was Count Earton?

  ***

  At that moment, Count Earton was busy holding an interrogation in the field.

  Some of the mercenaries were still alive, including two commanders, and nobody was going to pull any punches with them. They got a brazier with embers, tongs, plyers, plus some other pleasantly sparkling tools and proceeded to the interview. Leir Olsen had no desire to play nice.

  In the meantime, Miguel had left to fetch the girls. Jess had no time for that; the sooner they learned the truth about the conspiracy, the better. It didn't matter as much for the Ivernean. He had his people with him, but Jess's family was in the city. He needed to know how powerful their enemies were—after all, he was going to crush them.

  "So will we talk, or should I snip an ear off first?" Leir Olsen asked one of the mercenaries casually.

  There were no heroes there. They got paid to fight, and they had been before, but the fighting was already over, as was most likely their chance to get their payment. What was the point in being honorable?

  The people interrogating them were dead set on getting answers and weren't going to pardon them. They would snip off their ears, cut off their fingers, and make belts out of their backs, and that's just for starters. It was better not to think about what would happen after that.

  "If I tell you everything, will you let me go?"

  Leir Olsen narrowed his eyes.

  "Maybe you'd like a glass of wine and a few wenches, too? If you tell me everything, I'll just hang you. If you don't, you'll beg for that, got it?"

  Jerisson shook his head.

  "Why so harsh, Leir?"

  "What do you suggest, Count? Let this scum go so he can tip his masters off?"

  "Who said anything about letting him go? There must be a couple of places for holding captives inside the f
ortress. And later..."

  "Release him? Bah!"

  "If we're defeated, he'll be freed anyway. But if we win, just kick him out into the sunset. If he knows anything, that is."

  The "good cop, bad cop" routine had been well-known even in the Middle Ages, and like any good thing, hadn't gotten any worse with time.

  The mercenary gulped and started talking.

  ***

  A mercenary's fate was a hard one. Being hired meant having money. Having money meant making a living. But making a living wasn't enough; it had to be a good living, too. And then there was saving up for old age. One couldn't spend a lifetime being a mercenary; by thirty, most of them already had lots of injuries, scars, and ailments. A bad back and "lewd diseases" were only the tip of the iceberg: in practice, there was no end to the list.

  So when a customer offered good money, mercenaries usually agreed...to anything. It was never too late to run, and one couldn't have too much money.

  The thin line between professionals and amateurs was not accepting ill-fated missions and refusing frame jobs...while not being overly picky. Ryan Beck, a sergeant of the Red Dogs Gang, was no fool. When their commander had told them about their task, he had a hell of a fright. Still, it's not like they had to go inside the palace or, really, even stand anywhere next to it. All they had to do was to capture Fort Shedar. It didn't seem like a big deal.

  If not for that bothersome caravan, everything would have worked out swimmingly.

  Flush with anger, Leir Olsen was about to punch the mercenary in the jaw, but Jerisson's glare made him cool down. There was no need. The bird was singing, and yanking its tail could only hurt.

  That said, Jerisson was in complete agreement with the mercenary. They could have taken the fortress; the odds had been in their favor. They simply had no luck.

  Never in his life would he believe that there was no traitor on the gate or an inside man among the Ceruleans. There must have been! And he would ask about that, but later. If a man started talking, let him get a load off his mind; inquiries came after.

  It didn't seem too bad, either. The commander of the group, who was no fool either, had known what a risky venture that was. A wild ride, really. He wasn't going to lay down his life for Alcine.

  It was a bit more complicated, however. They had known the duke for some time. From time to time, he had given the gang profitable jobs and never set them up. There was also one other thing. Beck had a hunch that his commander had some other dealings with the duke, of a personal nature. He had no idea what exactly—lots of options there, starting with them once grabbing some lady and...ahem!...and ending with someone close to the commander living on the duke's lands. He never liked to talk about his life. His subordinates who proved too nosy often got a blow to the jaw in response to their questions, putting a lid on them for good.

  In a word, they couldn't refuse Alcine. All that remained was to go with the tide.

  Otherwise—yes, it was Alcine. He had a thousand men, give or take.

  What did they capture? The arsenal, he was sure of it; his friend went there. The treasury, too. Maybe the office of foreign affairs, but that was up in the air. He knew very little himself.

  The plan? The commander did hint at it a few times...and then, he who has ears, let him hear. Little by little, a bit at a time, but he managed to put two and two together.

  Alcine was going to kill the king and apparently had a queen and a prince with him. Still, that was far from certain. Someone blabbed something; someone else passed it on...

  No, he couldn't say for sure.

  Leir Olsen waved his hand, and the guards dragged the man somewhere in the darkness.

  "Where are you taking him?" Jerisson asked, concerned.

  "We have a shed. Let them sit there while we..."

  "Talk to the others?"

  "Exactly."

  ***

  Thomas Concord really didn't want to believe his eyes, but Lilian Earton had never shown any love for pranks or stupid jokes. That's why he hastened to find Jack Wilson, Marquis Losan's trusted servant.

  Jack had been living with his master in Wellster for some time, knew the local scene inside and out, and was generally a smart man. Two heads were better than one, in any case.

  Jack was in his master's chambers. Without hesitation, Thomas handed him the note.

  "Is it her handwriting?"

  "Yes."

  "And the seal?"

  "Same."

  "Why are you so sure?"

  Servants usually treated each other as equals. There were certain tensions and nuances, but overall, Thomas and Jack were mostly on the same level. One of them drove caravans, and the other managed the household, but both had hard and thankless jobs, especially when one had to deal with noblemen. Honestly, it would be easier to walk on eggs without breaking them—less chance of doing something wrong.

  "I know it. I've seen it more than once. Want me to swear by Aldonai?"

  Jack shook his head.

  "No need. I'd wait for the morning and then try to find out what's what."

  "What if they come here before then?"

  "Who'd care about us, servants?"

  "Not about servants. About our masters. See, they think they're here..."

  "They're all at the ball."

  "What about the children? Say, Viscountess Earton?"

  Realization flashed in Jack's eyes.

  "What do you want to do?"

  "Take everything I can and run."

  "Where?"

  Thom shrugged.

  "I have an idea..."

  He thought about innkeepers. For starters, they could spread out to several different inns, each group taking one or two carts. Gold coins would buy the owners' loyalty—no sense in giving up a paying customer.

  Snitches never lasted long in that business, in any case. They just didn’t survive. Dim and loose-tongued innkeepers were the stuff of street shows, not reality. True, they did like to talk, but only for their own benefit. Like, say, about the weather, nature, or fighting cocks; definitely not about politics. And not with guards, either, or spies. There was only one sacred cow for innkeepers—the one that paid, and its interests had to be protected. Thomas, in turn, was willing to pay in gold, generously. At the moment, coins were nothing to him, unlike human lives.

  Of course, that trick couldn't buy them a lot of time, but a few days were something. Afterward, as Countess Earton liked to say, someone would die anyway: the Emir, the donkey, or the man himself, and nobody would care if the donkey could speak.

  That's what he told Jack. The servant spent a few minutes mulling it over and finally nodded.

  "Yes, that would be right. But I suggest you do one other thing."

  "What?"

  "Count Dishan's house is not far from here."

  Concord shrugged. So what if it was?

  "We should let him know, or his family, at least..."

  "Who's this count?"

  "The king's right hand, the chief of the secret service. It used to be Count Lort, but His Majesty sent him away or—"

  Concord waved his hand.

  "Jack, you're talking rubbish! Imagine me coming at night to the house of a noble-born count, showing him a note from Aldonai knows who, and trying to convince him that it's the honest truth. They'll throw me out to the wolves!"

  "I know their servant. You can be sure that Remi will let you in, and his masters will hear you out."

  Thom shook his head.

  "Do it yourself if you want. I have people to assemble, then arrange everything..."

  "Will you give me the note?"

  Without a sound, Thom handed him a piece of parchment.

  "Don't lose it."

  "I promise I won't. Save a couple of seats, will you?"

  Thom nodded and hurried to his men.

  Jack hadn't ridiculed him or told him it was all nonsense, but still, talking to him was a huge risk. The worst thing for servants was getting into their masters' games. Whe
re a noble might keep his head, a smaller fish could easily lose both head and tail—and its own life as well. Who'd ever care about lowly lackeys? He had no business tarrying about.

  Thomas silently thanked Countess Earton, who had always spared a thought to her servants, and proceeded to make arrangements for the Exodus. He needed to tell everyone what to load, where to go, whom to talk to about lodging... He had nowhere enough hands and people.

  Whatever. It was better to get covered in sweat than with a funeral shroud.

  Let's get to work, guys! Nobody's going to wait for us!

  ***

  As Jack Wilson approached the gate of the Dishan mansion, he felt a certain trepidation. Thomas might have had absolute faith in Lilian Earton, but what about Jack himself?

  He was going to bet his life on a piece of parchment—and more than just his life. If the whole thing turned out to be a prank played by the nobles... Jack once again pulled out the note and read it.

  No, it was no joking matter. Something like that could get even a duke executed. The handwriting was uneven; the author had been in a great hurry or on edge. And the smell... The parchment reeked of something stale and stuffy. It had spent a lot of time in some chest or cabinet. It also smelled of rich perfume, just like that of Lilian Earton's rooms.

  Perfume, coffee... Not hesitating anymore, Jack knocked at the fence door. He couldn't very well bang on the front gate, could he?

  Fortunately for him, Remi wasn't asleep yet. Explaining the situation was a matter of minutes.

  So, and so, here's a note, we're running away, and you...think for yourself. But what about Count Dishan? Was he all right?

  Remi could only scratch the back of his head at that. Truthfully, it was hard to wrap your head around such news. Just a while ago, everything had seemed in order, and then... Cripes.

  "Jack...you'd better talk to Master."

  "That's why I came here."

  As the Marquis' servant, Jack was privy to certain secrets of the Wellsterian court and genuinely counted on Dishan's help.

  "Let’s go. I'll report, and the Young Master will decide..."